Paper Palooza: The Convention
by The General G of K
Summary: The long days of summer are finally winding down, and most of the employees haven't seen the Scranton Branch in months. How depressing when the film crew shows up, inviting them to reunite and attend Chicago's Paper Palooza Convention.
1. Summer VayCay

**TG/N: The idea of the Dunder Mifflin crew heading to a Paper Seller's convention was ignited by a story I read on The Office's fanfiction area. The authors of the particular story gave credit to a Convention in Chicago. I must forewarn, however, that I have never been to Chicago, so if you would all give me a little slack when it comes to the descriptions, etc., it would be greatly appreciated :) This will, hopefully, be a multi-chaptered story**

**Also, "Casino Night" never happened. This takes place during the summer after "Drug Testing" (and "Casino Night" but it never happened).**

* * *

"_So what have you been doing with your summer?"_

Jim turned to look at the cameraman, shielding his eyes from the early, orange evening sun. The look on his face registered as surprised even though the documentary crew had called ahead of time, asking if they could send someone over to film a short segment.

If he had been interrupted from some type of work, it couldn't have been very productive. Judging by the scene before the camera, however, it appeared that work was and had been the furthest thing from Halpert's mind. Clad in a tattered maroon tee and a pair of equally abused jean shorts, he was slumped in a ratty lawn chair with an electric guitar to his side and a perspiring beer bottle dangling lazily from his right hand. The only evidence of movement and work was the water flowing from underneath the red Corolla at the far end of the driveway, and the green garden hose that remained strewn across its width.

The cameraman frowned as he reluctantly turned his camera on while his buddy held the boom. This trip was certainly going to be a waste . . .

"Well, uh," Jim hesitated, tousling his already scruffy hair, ". . . I've dabbled with the guitar for a couple years and finally decided to splurge on an electronic set. I, uh, actually wrote a song in my free time." He gestured towards the guitar excitedly. "Would you—I mean, d'ya—do you wanna hear it?"

The cameraman nodded and squinted through the view piece as he focused on Jim grinning ear to ear, desperately trying to suppress it. As he hooked the guitar strap over his shoulders, he forewarned, "Look, I wrote this song in, like, two hours, and I may or may not have been completely hammered, so . . . here goes."

The song began by one note being plucked over in a monotonous hum. After waiting a couple moments for the song to progress to some sort of climax, the cameraman, Jeff, was still grasping at straws. Finally, Jim began to sing.

"My nights were dark and gloomy/my days gave me a fright/But then you came back to me/and my life was much more bri-i-i-i-i-i-i-ight—" On _bright_, his voice hit such a high falsetto it was almost embarrassing. He stopped playing abruptly, unplugged the guitar from the amp, and resituated himself in the lawn chair. "That's all I have so far, but, uh—" He suppressed a grin. "—it's a work in progress, plus, I plan on finishing it during my vacation. I probably won't be playing it in public anytime soon, though."

"_How was Australia? Are you still on vacation now?"_

"Oh, Australia was great," Jim said. He didn't initiate any more discussion on the topic, and he wiped the slight perspiration off his forehead. "I got back here in July and decided to blow the rest of my vacation time because, strangely enough, I just couldn't bring myself to work right away."

"_Because of Pam's wedding to Roy, right?"_

"What?—no." He scoffed. "No." The final 'no' was forced out like it was a confirmation of his denial, but Jeff, the cameraman, didn't press it. Instead, Jim made up for his weird reaction by rambling senselessly. "What I meant was Michael . . . and Dwight. Australia was just such a nice change of pace that it caused me to reach this sort of equilibrium, you know? And it was such a good feeling that I couldn't let it be destroyed by Dunder Mifflin. But, uh . . . so they tied the knot, huh?"

The cameraman nodded. Jim swallowed. Hard. He took a swig from his beer. "Well, good for them! Good for . . . them . . ."

Jim repositioned his legs and wondered silently why the documentary crew was bothering him now. He had a good eight days left of vacation to do exactly what he had done with the last six: lie around, practice the guitar some more, and delve deeply (without receiving hassle; Mark and his girlfriend were up at his parents' summer place) in two of his guiltiest pleasures: _So You Think You Can Dance?_ and his recently purchased _Strangers with Candy: The Complete Series_ box set. Nowhere in that equation did the documentary film crew fit in. They hadn't sent someone to film any part of his trip which was nice because he had begun to associate the film crew with Dunder Mifflin. This, tied in with the fact that he hadn't seen the crew in a good month or so, had him fearing the inevitable.

"_We wanted to ask: what's with the, uh . . . ?"_

"Huh?" The cameraman, Jeff, pointed at Jim's chin. "Oh, this?" He stroked the beard that now resided there and smiled in acknowledgement. "Well, I sort of fell into one of those streaks where you just don't care on my trip, but after, like, the third day, then I just got lazy. I'm talking shower-protest type lazy." The camera guys chuckled at his use of facial expressions. "Seriously, though? This thing took about two weeks to grow. I was going to shave because the beard has reached the point where it has taken over my whole face and is borderline homeless man/serial killer, but I've become attached to the look. It's like my twenty years too late, a thousand hairs too much _Magnum P. I._ look."

Jim laughed and drank the last few drops of his beer. "You don't even have to say it. I already know I'm a loser."

**-DM-**

"_What exactly have you been doing with your summers?"_

"Traveling, mostly," Dwight replied, fully protected from the bright, blaring sun that hung in the sky with a pair of sunglasses and SPF 60. He donned a pair of red swim trunks and a pair of black sandals. His arms were draped haphazardly over the banister on the deck slightly above the one the camera guy was filming from. A woman stood to his left, arms crossed, wearing a floppy, white sunhat, a pair of large sunglasses, and a matching white cover-up that was sheer enough to allow a view of her one piece suit which was very blue. It was, obviously, Angela.

"At the beginning of the summer, we took a month's trip over to Germany which, of course, was phenomenal," he continued, the ocean breeze making him a little hard to understand. "I wanted to go to Auschwitz because I had never been, and, unfortunately, I was a little disappointed. Apparently, they didn't make much of an effort to put us into a very positive light." He paused. "Come to think of it, it was actually . . . a little depressing."

"Anyway," he went on, ignoring his prior offensive remarks, "we visited this quaint little village afterwards that was used to stow away soldiers during the Second World War. Not only did their bakery have the greatest apple strudel in the universe, but one of its occupants was the most fascinating man I had ever met. He was born with only one lip, and sometimes his eyes would lose focus and begin moving rapidly helter-skelter in their sockets, but that is beside the point—anyway, he had the most _ama_zing story—"

"By 'we' he means the two of us traveling on a strictly platonic, very professional, education trip," Angela interrupted, her strict glare covered by her sunglasses.

"Of course," Dwight agreed, giving a meaningful glance back to his woman. He smirked slyly and informed, "After our trip to Germany, we stayed for a week in Gettysburg. Even a week cannot do justice to one of the greatest wars ever fought on American soil. I mean, to me, Lincoln is such an iconic figure. Michael even said that in his spare time at the White House, he would do stand up comedy routines, but that seems highly implausible.

"An unnamed source suggested we take a more romantic trip, so that's where this cruise comes into play," he continued, "The final destination is Egypt, and she is excited—" he jabbed a thumb in Angela's direction, "—because they worshipped cats or whatever."

She smiled, and Charlie, the other cameraman, nearly dropped his filming device in shock.

"_So who is taking care of your cats, Angela?"_

"Oh, no one," she informed, leaning against the banister for support. "My cats need to be taken care of in a specific way, and I don't trust anyone enough to give them full control. Besides, I am the only person they trust, and I am very intuitive when it comes to feline care."

"_How are your cats surviving then?"_

"I left out numerous bowls filled with food, and I bought three new litter boxes. I have pictures of my cats if you would like to see them," she said, grinning slightly, obviously enjoying the turn the conversation had taken.

Having no other choice, the cameraman nodded, and they all endured a good twelve minutes of incessant cat chatter. After she finished, Charlie, the cameraman, desperate for a new topic asked:

"_Is there anything else that was done this summer?"_

Dwight shifted his weight from his left to right foot, wiping an imaginary piece of lint off his shoulder. "Two weeks ago, the bi-annual Schrute family reunion commenced at Mose's and my beet farm. Both my father and grandfather, Dwight Schrute Jr. and Sr., as well as my great-grandfather, Dwide Schrude, were in attendance. There were beets all around, and it was just a wonderful time. My estranged brother, Wallace, even showed up which was surprising. He's always considered the weird one in the family."

**-DM-**

"_How has your summer gone?"_

"Um . . ." Pam shifted uncomfortably in the cheap, plastic cushioned chair she was seated in, ". . . it was fine."

Jeff, the cameraman, could not help sighing out loud. Out of all the Dunder Mifflin employees, Pam was the least entertaining when it came to camera time and interviews. The documentary was supposed to be real, but in comparison to her over-the-top co-workers, she was almost _too_ real.

Even though reality was the theme the crew was going for, there were no rules against it sometimes being entertaining. The only reason Pam continued getting air time, beside the fact that Charlie, the other cameraman, was fascinated with her honesty and persona, was because she had received such positive feedback from the clip they had shown at Sundance. Other than that, Jeff thought as he steadied his camera, there's nothing forcing me to keep prodding her for answers.

"_Have you gone on vacation anywhere?"_

Pam didn't answer for awhile. She just sat in her kitchen chair, staring at the floor, dressed in a pair of nondescript jean shorts, her Keds, and an even more nondescript sleeveless blouse. She fanned herself energetically with her free hand, while the other one supported the small baby who sat stoically on her knee. Her hair was much frizzier than normal, and due to the heat—the air conditioning broke down—it began sticking to her neck and forehead. The only source of ventilation came from the open sliding door, but there was, unfortunately, no breeze.

"Um, we didn't really go on vacation this summer," Pam finally answered. "Roy and I decided we needed to save more money, so we've been faithfully going to Dunder Mifflin every business day. It's actually not so bad working there in the summer. Practically no one is there—even Dwight—and usually it's just Stanley, Toby, and I. I mean, even Michael is gone on his yearly one week vacation. Our substitute boss is Jan, of course, but this is the one week of the year we all start praying for back in December. Toby gets a head start in September."

"_We've been meaning to say 'congratulations'. How did the wedding go?"_

"Oh, well, thank you." Pam gave the faintest trace of a smile. She swallowed. Hard. "But, um . . . actually, the wedding was cancelled again. The building the reception was supposed to take place in was destroyed by a fire." The camera guy looked shocked. "Yeah, I know. We were just glad no one was hurt or anything. That would have been horrible . . . but, uh . . . so the wedding was cancelled, and the date has yet to be reset."

"_So that baby is not yours?"_

"No." Pam snorted. "Definitely not." She took hold of the baby and readjusted it so it rested on her shoulder. While patting it gently on the back, she bobbed it up and down very lightly. "No, this is my newest little niece, Maggie. Isn't she just the cutest?"

The cameraman nodded.

"My sister and her husband are on their second honeymoon to Italy, so she asked me to baby-sit," she explained. "And since I was relatively free, I agreed to do it ignoring the fact that kids don't like me. It's okay though because Maggie here is giving me some hands on experience. Plus, she is just an angel."

**-DM-**

"_Would you be interested in returning to Dunder Mifflin for a sort of reunion piece? Michael has a special event planned."_

Jim laughed for a good ten minutes. "As opposed to finishing out the rest of my vacation? I'll pass."

**-DM-**

"Return to Dunder Mifflin? I'd love to," Dwight replied. He ignored the pointed glance Angela gave him and continued. "I guess the only thing that concerns me is that I did not have prior knowledge to Michael's 'special' event. As Assistant Regional Manager, I have a business to know before the other, lesser qualified employees." He stopped. "Wait. Does Jim know?"

The cameraman, Charlie, shook his head.

Dwight smirked, shaking his head with infinite wisdom. "_Stupid_. Alright, would you tell me, please, what's going on, and then maybe—just maybe—I'll allow you insight on my answer. Tit for tit, what do you say?"

**-DM-**

"A paper convention in Chicago?" Roy repeated, staring at the camera with perplexity etched all over his face. "Is that even real? I've never heard of anything that stupid."

The cameraman, Jeff, nodded.

"_Different paper selling companies get together in Chicago and showcase their products, trade business tips, and participate in various workshops and seminars. It's about a week long, and they'll probably board you up at a hotel."_

"And we're invited to this thing?" Roy asked. Jeff assured him that they were as well as the rest of the Scranton Branch employees. "Is it free?"

Pam rolled her eyes as the camera guy assured that, yes, since Corporate was the one making the Scranton Branch participate they would be paying for everything and that included rooming.

"Alright, then," Roy proclaimed, smiling, "we'll go."

Pam was less than pleased. "Wait, Roy, don't you think we should discuss this? Privately," she added, glancing at the camera.

He turned to face her. "Baby, what's there to discuss?" he asked, pushing a piece of hair out of her face and behind her ear. "It's a free trip to Chicago. C'mon, you're always saying how you want to travel more. This is our opportunity. Besides, there's probably something you can take for car sickness."

Pam sighed, resting her chin on an outstretched palm. It wasn't the car sickness she was worried about.

**-DM-**

"Wait, so let me get this straight," Stanley Hudson demanded, clad in only an undershirt and a pair of boxers, from behind his locked screen door, "I am entitled to a free trip to Chicago for just the wife and I if I agree to go with the Dunder Mifflin staff, including Michael, to this paper convention?"

"_That's right."_

Stanley shook his head angrily. "Get the hell away from my house."

The door was slammed shut.

**-DM-**

"_Dwight is going to be there."_

Jim nearly choked on his spit, or would have if he had any spit to choke on. As it was, he just launched into a coughing spasm. "Whoa, w-w-wait. I'm confused. Is that statement an incentive or a condemnation?" he asked, rubbing his sore throat. "Either way, the answer is still 'no'. And just for future reference, the name 'Dwight' is no longer allowed to be mentioned in the happy zone."

**-DM-**

"It's a prepaid trip?"

The cameraman nodded.

"And no kids are permitted?" Meredith Palmer repeated again, looking, for the most part, sober.

Once again, the cameraman nodded.

"Are we allowed to bring alcohol or drink it during any period of this trip whatsoever?" she asked.

The cameraman hesitated, and then shrugged.

"Where do I sign up?"

**-DM-**

"_So you'll go?"_

After a couple nudges from Roy, Pam reluctantly nodded. "Yeah, I guess we'll go."

"Thank you, baby." He kissed her on the cheek, and she couldn't help but grin.

**-DM-**

"Alright, I'll go," Creed Bratton said jovially, hiding his four-footed toe out of the camera's view. "But, uh, who's Dunder Mifflin?"

**-DM-**

"Do I have to go?" Ryan asked, thoroughly depressed at the thought of having to spend any more time at Dunder Mifflin's Scranton branch than he had to. His transfer had been put in months ago, but they had yet to get back to him. Come September, he was absolutely finished with selling paper.

"_Not really, but you should go. It's only one week."_

Ryan sighed and ran hi hands through his hair much like the gesture he had used after sleeping with Kelly. He had only meant to go in and get out of Dunder Mifflin, not get caught in a chasm so deep it was almost impossible to get out of, but that's what happened. And now, he was in over his head. Then again, what was one week?"

"Okay, I'll go, but under one condition," he said.

"_What's that?"_

"I will not share a room with either Michael or Kelly."

**-DM-**

"_Would you come if we told you Pam was going to be there?"_

Jim hesitated.


	2. Foreboding

**TG/N: I apologize for the shortness of this chapter in comparison to the first one. I wanted to get this up before I headed back to school, and since The Office won for Best Comedy Series at the Emmys (SQUEE!) I figured now was as good a time as any to post an update. Besides, after viewing how delicious our Mr. Krasinki looked Sunday night, this was the least I could do. Also, I realize that the co-workers in the show only get a week's worth of paid vacation, but to make the first chapter work as well as the rest of the story, I gave them a few extra weeks of vacation. Also, if the first chapter seems like the Christmas special of the UK version, it is because I really liked the way they did that. That being said, I hope you enjoy this next, albeit short, chapter, and I apologize for spelling or grammar errors.**

**-DM-**

Pam chewed on the end of her sunglasses and stared out the car window, looking at her fellow co-workers with deep concentration. It was always so strange to see them out of the office, away from Michael, and out of their stuffy work clothes. In civilian clothes, they appeared to be . . . normal. Even Kevin, who was donning a bucket hat, a Hawaiian print shirt, and a pair of aviator sunglasses, looked like your average Joe. Then again, this observation _was_ coming from someone who worked at Dunder Mifflin for what seemed like ages.

"Pammy!" It was Roy. He poked his head through the driver's side window and leaned on the door with his forearms. "What are you doing in the truck still? C'mon, they're loading the bus up. We'll be leaving any minute now."

Pam couldn't help but grin at his boyish smile and the avid excitement for the trip he was exhibiting. "Um, yeah. I'll be out in a minute, okay?" she explained, wrapping her sweater that much tighter around herself. Roy said she wouldn't need a sweater since it was summer, but she insisted. Something about its warmth or softness was a comfort to her. "I just need to . . . recollect myself, I guess."

Whether it was in part to the bright, early morning sun or the fact that Michael insisted they each arrive promptly at six, Roy squinted at her and smirked. "Fine, just don't be late or we might leave without you." He blew a kiss her way, tapped the car door for reassurance, and made his way towards Darryl and Lonny.

Pam sighed and reclaimed her previous stature before becoming restless. Besides, the sunglasses still tasted like plastic, no matter how long she chewed on the ends. It was now or never, she decided. Taking a deep breath, she exited the truck and made her way towards the cluster of people in the middle of the parking lot. Sure, they had nothing in common, and, yes, Pam needed a seminar on paper like she needed a hole in her face, but it was a trip to Chicago, and at the moment, any place was better than Scranton, Pennsylvania.

**-DM-**

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again," Oscar boasted to Kevin and Stanley, who was forced to attend by his wife, "the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy when watched by each individual DVD is a collection of iconic pieces which will certainly go down in cinematic history. When you watch them all in a row, though, the true masterpiece is brought to light, and that is where Peter Jackson truly shines."

Stanley shrugged nonchalantly while Kevin nodded. "I can understand where you are coming from," he said with his monotonous drawl, "but I have to disagree. Personally, I feel George Lucas was the first and last mastermind to successfully have created an inspiring trilogy. Plus—" He grinned. "—Princess Leia was _hot_."

Stanley nodded, and Oscar, unable to come up with a counter remark, merely nodded as well. Besides, his mind wasn't on Princess Leia."

"Pamela."

Pam whipped her head around and blushed, embarrassed that she had been caught listening in on someone else's conversation. However, when she discovered who it was that caught her, she rolled her eyes.

"Greetings, Pam," Dwight announced, ignoring any vibes of annoyance Pam might be—_was_—giving off. He had a clipboard grasped in one hand and was taking notes with the other one. "It's nice to see you again. You look . . . pretty."

Pam was pretty certain her mouth was hanging open, or, at least, it felt like it. Unfortunately, however, she couldn't exactly return the compliment. Not because it was Dwight, but because she was physically unable. Apparently, he must have dressed in the dark because his attire consisted of the same goldenrod, short sleeved, polyester shirt he wore to work which was tucked into a very depressing looking pair of khaki shorts with _pleats_. His Birkenstocks were worn with white socks, while his tie seemed to give off the sensation of being hurled into a dumpster. The only thing stopping Pam from bursting into laughter was Dwight's ego. She wasn't a mean person.

"What do you want, Dwight?" she asked, hoping her voice came out curtly so her amusement would be hidden. It wasn't, and her voice didn't. Pam had never been a good liar.

Dwight took his sunglasses off and put them in his front shirt pocket. "Actually," he said, "I am going around and taking note of who is here and who isn't. The bus driver, Hank, needs a count because we will be on that bus for what will seem like an eternity." He frowned at the bus. "Personally, I'm not looking forward to it."

Pam forgot for a minute that Dwight wasn't her friend. And, also, that he and she never had civil conversations. "Yeah," she snorted, "me neither. I always get car sick."

"Exactly," Dwight agreed. His eyes didn't leave the bus. "Even with my extensive mind manipulation techniques I learned during my bout as a volunteer sheriff's deputy, I still haven't conquered it. F . . ." He turned around and shook his head. "Hey, listen; I have some Dramamine in my backpack. If you get sick, you can take one."

Pam nearly fainted. "Oh, um, well . . ." She couldn't get herself to talk straight. What was up with Dwight? Why was he being so nice? It wasn't another concussion, was it? Despite herself, Pam smiled. "Wow, um, thanks, Dwight," she said, "but I couldn't."

He scoffed and glared at her before saying, "Suit yourself." He walked away without another word.

Pam chewed her nails, trying to rid her body of that weird feeling. _That was creepy._ After a couple minutes, she decided to ignore Dwight and make her way over to Phyllis. She was always worth talking to, even if Bob Vance was worse than Dwight in some ways.

Though the humidity was bad that early in the morning, a cool breeze blew by, one which Pam enjoyed immensely. Of course, it would be gone by mid afternoon, but by that time, she would be on that hell hole known as a bus. She watched as Phyllis, Toby, and Meredith laughed at something funny Bob had said, determined to at least enjoy this trip somewhat. However, a biting chill suddenly ran up her spine and she turned around, agitated by the feeling that someone was watching her. Nothing was there save for a couple trees in the distance. She shook her head and carried on. _Relax, Beesly_.

**-DM-**

Jim sat in his car, chewing on the end of his sunglasses, debating whether he should go or not. Though it normally didn't bother him anymore, his knees were jammed against the dash due to their length, and thanks to the hour he had been sitting there in thought, they were now numb. Why hadn't gotten a larger car, was beyond him, as was the large, fully packed suitcase in the trunk. He didn't _have _to go, and yet, this morning he was forcing himself out of bed after a long night (_Strangers with Candy_ and alcohol don't math; either Amy Sedaris was a comedic genius, or he was completely hammered) and packing a week's worth of belongings into a tattered, leather suitcase. Then he drove to the Dunder Mifflin parking lot and hadn't moved for a couple hours.

The taste of plastic did nothing to soothe his frazzled nerves, nor did it soothe the sense of foreboding he felt when he saw Dwight calling his co-workers to load up onto the bus. After watching him call a couple times, all foreboding was washed away when he spotted her talking to Phyllis and Meredith in line, waiting to pack onto the bus.

She looked radiant, as if she was the happiest person on the planet, and she definitely looked married, he thought. Something about her stride had changed, as if she had entered a new way of life. _That sounds stupid, you jackass._

Her hair changed too. It was shorter or longer; he couldn't tell. For the first time since he had known her, her hair was in a ponytail, and it wasn't frizzy or out of control. It wasn't unattractive in the least bit. _Not that she could look unattractive_, Jim allowed himself to think before chastising himself silly.

She was wearing her Keds and an outfit he had never seen before which consisted of beige capris and a navy-blue and white striped shirt. She also happened to be carrying a sweater. Sure, it wasn't the pink one (his favorite), but at least it wasn't that oatmeal colored one. It was white, so definitely a close second favorite.

Jim shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He told himself he wouldn't let it get to him. He told himself she would be happy, and, no, she would not be better off if she was with him. She was married now, and he was her friend. As such, it was his job to support her in any decisions she might make. Still, that didn't mean it didn't hurt because it did.

A lot.

"Whoa, Jim."

Startled, Jim whipped his head around and ended up hitting his forehead on the car door. He swore under his breath. "Way to . . . sneak up on me, Kev," he managed to say without uttering any explicative. He liked Kevin.

"Are you crying?" Kevin asked, oblivious to the physical pain Jim had just endured.

Instinctively, he swiped at his eyes, trying to hide the blush of embarrassment that threatened to creep onto his cheeks. "_What_? No. No. It's, uh," he stuttered, trying to explain himself, "allergies. They're _really_ bad in the summer."

Kevin nodded and before Jim could say anything else, he said, "Your beard is _awe_some."

Despite the throbbing pain in his head, Jim grinned. "Thanks, Kev. I was going for he unemployed, hobo look. It's sort of foreshadowing what would happen if I quit Dunder Mifflin."

Kevin grinned. "Nice . . . so are you going to come along?" he asked, gesturing towards the bus. He looked through the car window, staring at the driver intently.

"I might." Jim opened the door and got out, taking a deep inhale of the cool, morning air. Thank God it had been Kevin and not Michael who had found him. He wasn't ready to face Michael yet.

After running his fingers through his cleanly washed hair (he had taken the time to abandon shower protest and took one earlier), he leaned against the Toyota. The sun's rays did nothing to improve his faltering mood, however; they did create an unusual sense of formality and encouragement. Even the birds and trees seemed to be smiling down on him. Although, that could very well have been an illusion induced by the hangover he may or many not have been suffering from.

Without another word, Kevin moved over to Jim's other side, and mimicked his stance. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. They both stared at nothing in particular, Jim thinking about anything and everything; Kevin wondering if the burs driver was a woman, and if so, whether or not she was "smokin'". Jim closed his eyes and groaned internally. He had reached the Point of No Return. Now the only question was whether to trudge forward, or retreat. Each decision had its equal share of pros and cons. The only difference being one choice consisted of a week with Dwight K. Schrute, while the other consisted of being glued to the couch watching old reruns of _Miami Vice_.

"Hey, um," Kevin finally began, breaking the silence that had encompassed them during their short time together, "if you do decide to go on the trip, do you want to sit with me on the bus?"

Unable to contain himself, a half smile found its way onto Jim's countenance. He turned his head slightly towards Kevin, and allowed one eye to open for better concentration. "Gee, Kev," he said, shifting the weight on his feet, "I'm flattered, but won't Stacy get a little jealous? I don't know if you know this, but I am quite the catch. Women and men alike have fought just for a single glance at the Adonis before you."

Immediately, Kevin's face fell. He removed himself from the car, and slowly backed away from it. "Whoa, Jim," he said, this time with a completely different intonation than was used the first time he uttered it, "I just wanted to know if you wanted to sit next to me on the bus. That is all. Stacy and I are happily . . . um, fiancé-ed."

Jim pushed himself off of the car and laughed. His mind set, he took the keys from his pocket and popped the trunk, grabbing his suitcase. "Relax, buddy, I was just kidding!" He slammed the car trunk closed and slipped his sunglasses on. "It would be an honor to be your bus seat mate."

The two took off and walked towards the bus. Only once did Jim look back, but he realized that he had made his choice, and it was too late to turn back. He felt his hands shake nervously, but willed them to stop only by convincing himself that he had been covering up his feelings for years, and now was no different. He could do this.

As they approached the bus, Kevin nudged him and said, "You better keep a low profile. If Dwight sees your beard, he will go off the deep end. He has been trying to achieve the Paul Giamotti look for years now. He once got close, but it looked more Alex Trebek more than anything. Y'know, he cried the day he discovered Alex shaved his mustache off? It was the second day he didn't come into work."

Jim cracked a smile and allowed Kevin to go onto the bus first. "I did _not_ know that, but thanks for sharing." He shook his head and wondered if maybe this trip wouldn't be as bad as he thought it would be.


	3. The Beard

**TG/N: For those of you who still remember this story, I say bravo! And also that I hopefully quench your Office withdrawal. It's only been a couple weeks, and I'm already starting to hurt . . . physically and emotionally. No Dwight, no Andy. No Creed. And who am I supposed to rely on for sarcastically biting remarks when Stanley is nowhere around? No one, that's who! Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for taking almost an entire year to update this. Although, maybe it's kind of better because this is supposed to be a summer story, and now that summer is reapproaching, everyone's in their 'summer moods'. Ignoring my complete incompetence, I give you what I hope will be an adequate addition to Paper Palooza: The Convention:**

**-DM-**

"Oh, my God, Roy, did you hear . . . that . . ."

The grin on Pam's face faded as she realized Roy was asleep. Not that she had been able to tell immediately. She had to peer over the seat in front of her to get visual proof, but the signs were all there. Even Darryl had passed out.

She collapsed back in her seat and stared out the window. Truth be told, she didn't mind sitting by herself or that Roy didn't want to sit with her because she might "blow some chunks." After all, she did get pretty bus sick. For once, though, it would have been nice if he had insisted on sitting with her just because he wanted to. Who else was she supposed to share her Michael-confusing-the-bus-driver-for-a-man story? She was a woman, by the way.

Even Oscar was sitting next to Toby. If that wasn't a weird combination, she didn't know what was. She sighed. It was like the high school cafeteria all over again, and once again, she was forced to sit by herself amongst a sea of people who didn't even acknowledge her existence. If she had wanted to be by herself, she would have stayed home, which brought her thoughts, full circle, back to why she had even agreed to come on this stupid trip in the first place.

"_So how's the bus ride so far?"_

"Oh, um, the bus ride's been fine." She pushed her bangs behind her ears, but they didn't stay. "I finally took Dwight up on his offer for some Dramamine, and I think it's finally kicking in. I'm feelin' pretty good right now . . . but, um, that's probably the drowsiness talking."

"_Have you talked to Jim yet?"_

The question surprised her so much, she choked on her own spit. The cameraman offered to help, but Pam signaled against it. She hadn't even realized Jim was on the bus. "No, I haven't gotten the chance yet," she responded, having calmed her coughing spasm. Her palms had suddenly gone slick and she wiped them on her capris. "I just—I just didn't want to come off as annoying, you know?" she covered for her ignorance. "He's probably still adjusting to the time change since Australia is really far away, so . . . he's probably, like, really tired, and I don't want to disturb him." Even to her own ears, her excuse sounded lame. Plus, she was obviously rambling. "Um, you'll have to excuse me; I really need to use the ladies' room."

She excused herself and began walking down the aisle towards the back of the bus. Through her peripheral vision, she watched as the cameraman turned his attention towards Stanley and his wife, who was sleeping. He complained about how she forced him to come along, but he only got through the beginning before Pam was out of hearing range. She glanced down at the lock on the bathroom door and observed the brilliant "OCCUPIED" sign. Hopefully the wait wouldn't be too long. Although, if it was, at least she'd have an excuse to stay away from Roy.

**-DM-**

Ryan agitatedly pulled the ear buds out of his ears, mid-Foo Fighters, in response to being jolted by Kelly in the seat beside him.

"What?"

The smile on Kelly's face faded, and she looked hurt beyond belief. "Geez, Ryan, if I knew you were gonna be such a jerk, I wouldn't have ever come to sit with you in the first place," she complained, her brows furrowed. She crossed her arms over the hot pink halter top she was wearing. Just the sight of that color made Ryan's head hurt. "God, I even let you have the window seat, even though you fully know that natural sunlight brings out the golden hues in my skin."

Ryan was barely listening, as he had learned to tune her out whenever he possibly could. He hated being rude to her, but she just couldn't take a hint. He was hoping she would eventually just get sick of being treated like dirt and break up with him. So far, no luck. Instead, he sat in an uncomfortable bus seat overhearing Creed's morning ritual, which included doing yoga nude on his front lawn and listening to Kelly ramble off about something or other. He groaned. Why had he even agreed to come along?

"Sorry," he finally said, eager to get her to stop talking. "I'm just not feeling well."

Kelly pouted. "Aww, Ry-Ry!"

She began nuzzling his neck, and he had to admit it was much more preferable to her talking, so he let her continue. Eventually she stopped and rested her head on his shoulder. He was just about to pop his ear buds back in when a camera was shoved in his face.

"_So how's the trip so far?"_

"Oh," Ryan admitted, rather acidly, "it's everything I thought it would be."

They could decipher that however they wanted to, he decided.

**-DM-**

"_Why did you change seats?"_

Toby looked up from the _Rolling Stone_ magazine he had been perusing. He adjusted the baseball cap on his head. "Well . . . to be honest," he admitted shyly, "Oscar sort of snores when he sleeps and after awhile it just started to get on my nerves, so I moved back here."

Toby had to wonder why they were filming such a stupid question, as he often did. It wasn't as if he were fascinating or anything. He just worked in Human Resources after all. "The only sound I have to deal with back here is Dwight telling anyone who will listen his theories concerning Snape. I don't really mind it, though. I mean . . . in comparison, it's no worse than telling the bus driver, Hank, the story of how I slept in my car that one time after the divorce." He cleared his throat. "Sometimes . . . I really hate Michael."

**-DM-**

"Okay, Dunder Mifflinites, let's play a little game," Michael said from the front of the bus. He looked more tanned than usual, and his hair looked shorter as if he had just gotten a haircut. His left hand grasped one of the seats for support, while his right hand hung freely by his side, occasionally gesturing for emphasis. "I'm going on a picnic, and I'm going to bring with me an . . . apricot. Stanley? Your turn."

Stanley didn't even look up from his crossword puzzle. "No."

Michael's smile faltered somewhat as he struggled to keep his composure. "What? No, you—Stanley, just . . . do it. I order you to play the game."

"We are not even going on a picnic, Michael," Stanley challenged, his one eyebrow raised in possible annoyance or frustration. If his wife weren't sleeping and hadn't been so good to him for the past twenty-two years, he might have killed her right then.

"Yeah, Michael," Phyllis chimed in from her seat next to Meredith. Meredith had passed out far earlier on in the trip, a tiny metal flask sticking out of her windbreaker's pocket. Surprisingly, she hadn't taken a drink from it . . . yet. "I thought we were going to a paper convention." She brightened. "Are we going to _go_ on a picnic when we get there?"

Under his breath, or at least, what he thought was under his breath, Michael muttered, "_Shiuuuuuuuut it_," before he took a deep breath and massaged his forehead. "Phyllis, why don't you just go back to your woman's troubles and wait your turn, _okay_? And no, there is no picnic." He sighed. "Stanley. Please? C'mon! It'll be fun."

Frowning so hard, his forehead hurt, Stanley scowled. "Fine," he surrendered. "I am going on a nonexistent picnic and I'm gonna bring with me a human tranquilizer gun with unlimited ammo. Does that suit your liking?" Without waiting for an answer, he added, "Good. 'Cause I don't care."

"That would be unwise, Stanley," came a superior voice from the back of the bus. It was Dwight, and he had finally resurfaced from his Snape debate. "You'd most likely want to stick with small artillery when—"

"Dwight, shut it!" Michael called from his spot callously.

Dwight's heart sank. The cameraman turned his device towards him, but Dwight quickly sank back into his seat, not wanting his moment of weakness to go televised. "Sorry, Michael," he apologized loudly enough so that Michael could hear it. Dwight didn't realize it, but Michael just rolled his eyes. "It must be the Dramamine," he explained. "I will not fail you again."

"Yeah, okay, Dwight, whatever." He turned his attention back to Stanley. "No, see, you need to bring something that starts with 'b,' then you—"

Jim groaned and sank back into his overly stuffed chair, blocking out Michael as much as he possibly could. This, he decided, was on his top ten list of worst decisions ever made. Not number one, but definitely three or four. He glanced out the window, and watched as a yellow Mustang sped by in a blur. Despite the smeared gray of the highway, it looked gorgeous outside. At least if the day sucked terribly, the weather would be great. It wasn't raining, the sun was shining brilliantly, and hardly any clouds hung in the crystal clear blue sky. He brushed a piece of hair out of his eyes and couldn't help thinking how much greater the trip would go if he had ultimately decided not to come. _It's a free trip to Chicago, Halpert,_ he reminded himself as he moved over to give a sleeping Kevin more room. _You'd never get there otherwise. Plus, what would you be doing at home anyway? Watching old _Golden Girls_ reruns? Don't shake your head 'no,' Halpert! That's exactly what you would be doing._

"Oh, my God. Jim, hey!"

The voice filtered through his ear canals until it spread out to the tips of his fingers and toes and sped the rate of his heart which pounded beneath that maroon tee he hadn't washed since two days ago. His hands became slick with sweat. He hadn't heard that voice in over two months.

He was at a loss for words. "Wow . . . Pam. Hey." The furthest his mind had processed was his trip to Australia and June tenth. The thought of speaking to her after the wedding had never even crossed his mind.

She smiled brightly and held onto the bench across the aisle for balance. "You look . . . different," she admitted; her smile faltering slightly. It was just as she feared. He was no longer on her level, in Scranton, PA. He was now the worldly traveler. He even had facial hair.

Pam couldn't help that her smile faltered. Jim was her friend, and yeah, she should have been really happy for him that he got to fulfill his dreams, but secretly, she couldn't help being slightly jealous. What dreams had she followed? She had never traveled out of Scranton, and what did that town have to offer? Sure, when she was younger her family would go to the Jersey shore during the summers, but ever since she had been with Roy and he had proposed, her main focus had been on saving money for the wedding.

There was that one option, she reminded herself glumly. Jan had offered her not only foreign travel (for her, anyway), but an opportunity to hone her art skills and to shed her title of receptionist once and for all. But she had decided against it. Well, Roy had, but he was only looking out for their future, and really, he did have a point. It wasn't as if she could really afford it, and the choice didn't really have that much security.

Still, sometimes when she was alone, and things got deathly quiet, she wondered how things would have turned out had she chosen the option to go. At least she would have followed her dreams. At least she wouldn't have been stuck in Scranton where the only things she had were Roy and the Steamtown Mall. At the moment, neither of those things seemed too appealing.

"Different 'good' or different 'bad'?" Jim asked, pulling her from her thoughts. His lips deceived him and tugged upwards in a grin.

Pam thought about it for a minute. "Um . . . different hairy," she finally decided on, sitting in the seat opposite Jim as a sort of exclamation point. "When did you decide to grow a beard?"

Jim forced out a grin and laughed uncommittedly. How did you explain shower protest to your coworker, especially a coworker like Pam? The answer, of course, was simple: you didn't. "I am insulted," he cried in mock indignation. "Asking about a man's beard is like asking about a woman's age. Shame on you."

Pam threw her hands up into the air in feigned surrender. Maybe he hadn't changed as much as she thought. "I'm sorry," she pleaded, giggling. "I'm so sorry; I had no idea!"

Jim smiled, lifting his cap so he could see her better. "I'll let it slide this time, Beesly, because you're my friend. But for future reference, just know that beards and-or mustaches are forbidden territory. Do you think Sean Connery lets people even _mention_ his beard?" He shook his head ardently. "Definitely not. Sideburns, on the other hand, are different. Sideburns are almost like a medal of a guy's awesome factor. That's why Conan O'Brien is pretty much the coolest guy to walk the planet because he has some of the greatest sideburns ever. They're pretty much the king in the hierarchal system of facial hair. In fact, talk about sideburns is definitely encouraged."

"What about mustaches?" Pam wanted to know, fully enjoying the turn the conversation had taken. "Where do they fall on the hierarchal system?"

Jim seemed to think about it for a long time before he explained, "Well, mustaches are like the scribes of the kingdom because they're definitely above peasants, but they don't hold a candle to the sideburns' nobility. Beards are like the queen to the king, and the peasants are goatees and 'soul patches' like Apollo Anton Ohno's because those are just _lame_. It's like, '_I'm going to grow a beard, but only one eighth of one!_' Please. If you're a real man, you'll take the dive."

Pam nodded fervently, "Okay, I get it!" Kevin stirred from his sleep, and automatically she clamped a hand over her mouth. When he stopped moving, and it appeared that he wasn't going to wake up, she added much quieter, "But since we're good friends, and we've already brought the subject up . . ."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jim said, "You never give up, huh?" Pam shook her head sweetly. He sighed dramatically. "Fine . . . actually, to tell you the truth, there's not much of a story to tell about ol' Bessie Lou—that's what I call it—" he added, stroking his beard lovingly, "—except that I got lazy and carefree in Australia, hence the lack of shaving."

A small glimmer crossed Pam's eyes at the mention of Australia, but it was gone just as fast as it had appeared. As a matter of fact, if he hadn't looked in her direction at that moment, he would have missed it. "Oh, yeah," she stated, pushing her bangs behind her ears again, "I forgot to ask you how your trip went. So tell me: how was the beach down there? I thought about you a lot this summer." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, and she saw Jim's eyebrows rise slightly, she regretted them instantly. "I—I mean," she restated, "like, when I was stuck in the office, sometimes when I would get bored, I would think of, you know, 'Fancy New Halpert' sunbathing on the beach, and, well, you know how often boredom goes around Dunder Mifflin."

Jim only knew too well. "Australia was great," he said without elaboration. The last thing he ever wanted to do was go into detail of all the dark time spent in his hotel room. Nothing could be more embarrassing than that low he had reached, but he was over that now. And that's how it was going to stay if he had anything to say about it.

"Oh, well I'm glad you had a great trip," Pam said. She sounded genuinely happy about the trip and the whole conversation they were sharing. Even though he couldn't admit it to himself, deep down he knew he had really missed Pam. She was, after all his friend.

The two sat in silence for a moment or two, not mentioning the one topic that was on the top of each of their minds. Pam kept quiet out of not wanting to stir up trouble, and Jim because he knew he could not handle the inevitable. Things were a lot less complicated when they could hide behind the friends' façade.

"I didn't marry Roy," Pam finally blurted, breaking the silence, at the same time as Jim commented, "You look really nice today, Beesly."

Jim's eyes widened as realization finally poured over him. "Wait—_what_?"

Before he could get an answer out of her, Kevin finally did wake up. He lifted his aviator sunglasses and rubbed his eyes with the heals of his hands. "Hey, Pam," he greeted, more slowly than usual, probably due to sleep.

"Hey, Kevin," Pam replied, almost as if it was difficult to spit the words out. She avoided Jim's gaze at all costs. "Where's, um . . . Stacy?"

"Oh." Kevin's brows furrowed slightly, and he didn't look too pleased. "She couldn't make it on account of—" he used air quotes, "—'work related' time consumptions." He shook his head and sighed. "Really, I just think she didn't want have to deal with Michael after what happened at the Dundies. I can't really blame her though . . . Hey! Did you get a look at Jim's beard? It's pretty _awesome_."

Pam nodded quickly. Never in her life had she ever wanted to get out of a situation more than she did then. "Yeah, Dwight will probably be pretty jealous since his mustache never worked out."

"That's exactly what I told him," Kevin admitted with a slight grin. He fished in his pockets before producing an iPod.

_I didn't marry Roy_. The words kept repeating themselves in Jim's mind over and over again. Was she being serious? Was it all a joke? Had she even meant to say it? And more importantly, _why_? He wanted an answer so badly, but before he could get anything out, Pam stood up abruptly.

"Well, I should probably get back to my seat," she explained, jabbing a thumb towards the front of the bus. "Roy's probably wondering where I am—" _Lie_. "—so I'll see you later, Kev. It was nice talking to you, Jim."

"Yeah," Jim called after her. Kevin, beside him, was lost to the world in his own iPod. He could just barely make out the sound of Grand Funk Railroad's 'Some Kind of Wonderful'. "Feelings mutual."

**-DM-**

"_Where's Michael?"_

Angela rolled her eyes and turned to look at the pandemonium wreaked on the drop off zone of the Hilton hotel the group was apparently staying at for the duration of their week in Chicago. All of her coworkers were scattered out on the concrete platform, their suitcases strewn haphazardly. Large spot lights shown down on the hotel, breaking through the night in thin beams and various insects buzzed loudly as they gathered in front of the light. As for Angela, she turned her attention back to the cameraman.

"You would think he would have gotten one thing right on this trip," she said loudly, trying to speak over the clatter of car horns beeping. "You would think that, but you would be wrong. Apparently, he assumed that because this was a Hilton hotel, he could convince the manager that he had personal connections to that harlot Paris and that she gave us permission to stay our week for free. Obviously, the manager didn't buy it for a second, so now both he and Michael are trying to contact Corporate so they can sort this whole thing out. We've been waiting for over an hour, and most of us are really tired." She shook her head furiously. "I don't know why they keep giving Michael responsibilities. I just don't."

"_So do you know the reason for all the honking horns?"_

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked, leaning against one of the large columns on the concrete platform. Her hair blew slightly with the slight breeze that passed. "The cars want our bus to get out of the way since it's parked in a no parking zone. We would move it, but our bus driver, 'Hank,' took a smoking break about ten minutes ago, and we have not seen him since."

The cameraman was about to ask Angela something else, but was interrupted by a hurried Dwight, who gave him a suspicious glance even though he had been filming for a little over a year now. "Good evening . . . Angela," he added quickly, after giving a furtive glance to the camera. "Michael has sorted everything out, so he has asked me to gather everyone and tell them to meet up on the third floor."

"Thank you, Dwight," Angela said courteously, short of actually curtsying. She watched him as he walked through the automatic doors before gathering her own belongings. Turning towards the camera before she left, she added, "When 'Hank' goes to hell from smoking all those cigarettes, I hope God allows me to personally slap him for this and that terrible bus ride." She paused before adding, "I don't even think he's a legal U.S. citizen."

**-DM-**

Jim hated elevators.

It wasn't so much the contraptions themselves as it was standing in a confined space with total strangers standing right on top of you. Jim had a thing about his personal space. He enjoyed it most when people were nowhere near it. Normally, he would have taken the stairs, but there he stood, on the elevator with his belongings rationalizing that it would take too much out of him to haul his suitcase, plus a duffle bag, up three flights of stairs. He was in shape, but not _that _in shape. Especially since his summer had mainly consisted of lounging in front of the TV. Admittedly, his stomach had gone a little softer than it had been in a few years, but it was nothing a few games of basketball couldn't fix. To be honest, he didn't touch his basketball the entire summer. He sort of missed it.

_C'mon! CLOSE!_ The only person in the elevator was him since a group of his coworkers had just gone up in the previous trip. The door was taking its grand old time, but if he could time it correctly, he'd be riding up in no time, happily alone.

The door slowly crawled shut, but not before a hand shot through the slim opening. _Damn_. "Wait!" the voice called from the other side. The elevator door was sliding open again. "Wait, a minute, I—what are you doing?"

Jim stared at a disheveled Dwight who was carrying at least three suitcases, two pillows, and what appeared to be a large, green military backpack. He raised his eyebrows incredulously as if it were not the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm attempting to take the elevator to the third floor, Dwight," he casually replied, not taking note of Dwight's rigid stance.

Dwight opened his mouth to say something before clamping it shut again, his brow line furrowing. "I—no, Stupid, I get that. What is _that_? What is that on your face?"

"Oh," Jim brightened, realization dawning. He stroked his chin. "You mean my beard? I grew it over the summer. Do you like it?"

Dwight, obviously seething with jealousy, gathered his things and ungracefully dragged them into the elevator with him. His lips were set in a thin line, and he positioned himself on the opposite side of Jim. "Average," he announced before pressing in the button labeled '3'. "It's a little sparse by your chin, so technically, not really a beard."

Jim frowned, silently pleased as the door finally shut, and he felt the jerk of the elevator, signaling its ascent. He let out a jagged breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Unscathed. For the most part, anyway. He turned his attention back to Dwight. "Well, yeah," he agreed, leaning against the wall of the elevator and crossing his arms over his chest, "but it's still more hair than you have."

Dwight watched as the elevator dinged in recognition of the second floor, and the tiny circle above the door lit up. His shoulder ached from all the bags he was holding, but he didn't wince. Schrutes didn't wince. They didn't sing bass either, he thought absentmindedly. "I had a beard when I was thirteen, Jim. Don't need another one," he said shortly. "Schrutes happen to have excellent hair distribution."

"Whoa, _thirteen_?" Jim said in surprise, his lips twitching. He let out a low whistle. "That's a tough one to beat . . . . Did you know I was _five_ when I grew my first pair of mutton chops?"

He suppressed a smile when Dwight opened his mouth and then shut it, his face turning a violent shade of red. The elevator dinged once again, only this time, the door opened, and outside stood the rest of the Dunder Mifflin employees, their things strewn miscellaneously across the hallway. Jim grabbed his things and bypassed Dwight, adding, "It was nice talking to you, Dwight. I hope we're roommates."

Dwight scoffed, struggling as he attempted to grab all of his things before the door shut again. "You are the last person on the planet I would ever want to share a room with. Except for maybe Kelly," he added as an afterthought, having fully exited the elevator.

**-DM-**

"_How is the rooming situation?"_

The camera focused on Dwight leaning against the wall next to, what was presumably the door to his room. His hair was tousled as if he had run his fingers through it numerous times, and the scowl on his face didn't exactly emanate happiness.

"The rooming situation is _terrible_," he stressed, glaring at the cameraman as if _he_ were to blame. "Do you know who I got stuck with? No, you probably don't because you don't have the superior deduction skills of a Schrute, so in that case, I'll tell you. Jim Halpert. That is who I am stuck with for this entire week. Apparently everyone else paired up before we got up here.

"You know, this is _exactly_ what happened to Buffy Summers during her first year of college in episode 402 'Living Conditions,'" he went on to say. "I was disappointed that a vampire slayer couldn't figure out 'Kathy' was a demon. Not very comforting to us mortals, since I knew from day one 'Kathy' was a demon. Nevertheless, I can relate to Buffy since we both have, or in her case, had, annoying roommates." He grabbed a plastic Ziploc out of his bag. "Can't be too careful this time. If you happen to notice Jim clipping his nails more often than usual, alert me immediately. I'm the only one in this God-forsaken group who could take out He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, let alone a demon."

**-DM-**

"_Tell us: who is your roommate?"_

Darryl looked over his shoulder and was prepared to answer, but was, unfortunately, interrupted.

"Ooh, ooh, Mista Rogers, I call right bed!"

Darryl mimed shooting a gun off in his mouth. "No," he added sadly, his head hung low, "that would be too kind."


End file.
